Bonfire Whispers
by Amylion
Summary: Harry meets his nemesis quite unexpectedly... written for the Chimeracafe winter challenge. HPLV. Edited: January 2010


**AN:** This was originally written for the winterficathlon of the livejournal community Chimeracafe. It was written for the prompt 'Yuletide'. All usual disclaimers apply.

January 8th, 2010: As this story is still often read and favourited, I re-read it and decided to edit it a bit. Content-wise nothing has changed, I only smoothed out some grammar and punctuation issues. It's a much pleasanter read now. HP/LV winter story; enjoy!

**Bonfire Whispers**

He was looking forwards to it. It was Molly Weasley who had sent him the invitation to stay at The Burrow over the Christmas break and he had only agreed because he was curious about that one special event she was going to take him to. He didn't want to stay at Hogwarts, people and noises and sounds irritated him and those usually came in the form of silly questions. How trivial. But Harry Potter was the brave boy he was supposed to be who suffered in silence for the sake of tragedy, although it was only in the moody silence of Ron's temporarily abandoned bedroom that this thought struck him as such.

"It's an ancient tradition, you know,"

"Ancient, you say?" he had asked interestedly at the first day of his stay.

"Oh yes, it goes back hundreds of years. Even muggles have legends to tell of it, which they connect to cultures, long extinct."

"Please do tell!" He had always liked stories. Maybe because he had never heard any when he was a little boy, or because sometimes he felt like they could just come true.

"The Christmas break, it all revolves around one thing. Nowadays muggles celebrate it for different reasons as new religions came by but it all stems from the same tradition we still keep alive. It's Yuletide, Harry."

"All muggles have Christmas trees."

"Those are symbols of old, given new meanings. It is a time of celebration, not excessively as most do, but quiet and modest. Meant to bring warmth and comforts, love and memories. It is a tradition kept alive at one last place in Britain, for wizards at least. Call it a ritual if you like, I call it a celebration of the most beautiful kind."

"When?"

"At the night of Yule. It is the day of winter solstice, this year that is the 22nd of December."

"That makes it tomorrow. Will there be mead as well?" he had asked eagerly, and most people in the room had laughed heartily. For a moment he had felt happy as well, and the whole evening passed in a blur of colours, good night wishes and embraces. He felt light-headed by the time he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

And then morning had come and it had snowed. The rural landscape around The Burrow was white and falling snowflakes kissed his head as he went outside for a walk. He stared in wonder as if he were a child again that had never tasted snow on its skin, but perhaps he never had as now. Now he knew some things and snow would never again be forever, instead it melted and was gone when his warmth touched it. A pity. Like Sirius was gone, like Remus who had died with not so much as a sigh, and much like Arthur Weasley and others he had not known so well when curses touched them. Those were warm too, and made people melt.

But now Hermoine came to him and he smiled and walked with her for a moment. Breakfast was ready. Then there was an Order meeting, grim faces and bold words again, but in the evening the whole world would relax for a moment. The day shut itself out of Harry's mind except for one fairy tale he had heard a long, long time ago which rehearsed itself to come back in full strength in the evening, when snow flakes were still falling and they took a portkey and landed before a bonfire.

_He_ was there, Harry knew it, but his fairy tale dulled all feelings and it was okay. It was Yule after all, wasn't it? Then it should not be a warning but a simple fact only, and all the people around the bonfire were okay with it as well. He sat there on the other side, others surrounding him, occasional conversation going on between them. There were many people present, talking soft words and smiling or holding steamy mugs. Music whispered in the air, rhythmically crackling and sizzling with the flames, of the softest sounds to match the white nature. Mrs. Weasley wiped at her eyes; so did many others Harry noticed. It was an evening for memories as well, they had told him. He could imagine a red haired woman to have sat there, at the edge of the fire sixteen years ago, and was it only imprinted in his mind or did he really see her sitting there for the shortest moment, turning to him with a smile and waving?

"Go sit where you feel you should, Harry." Mrs. Weasley said. "The fire calls us all, dear."

He nodded and walked to that place, entranced. It truly was magical. And then people moved out of the way, making place for him to sit between them, because this magic's call was known and obeyed by all. It was so ancient no witch or wizard could touch it. The lullaby in his head continued and then he shook his head to clear the flames' sparkle from his eyes. He sat next to him, and his handsome face looked down at him with only the tiniest red flicker in much deeper eyes. After a moment he shortly inclined his head in a small nod. Harry returned the gesture. Entranced and unsure as he was about the situation he was in, it came out a bit stiffly though. His mind wondered about the nature of these happenings for a moment, how the image of his mother had led him to sit here, and he made a note to ask more about this later. The amazement over the events around him took over and the scents of honey and cinnamon made his senses come alive but only in that wonderful dream state he was in. A witch offered him a mug of warm wine and he gladly accepted. It gave him something to focus his attention on.

Of course Voldemort could sit here. He looked like any distinguished wizard, a middle aged man wearing dark and heavy winter robes. Only Harry's scar, the only visible mark of the bond they shared, betrayed the Dark Lord's whereabouts. Harry felt free to speak. This was his once in a lifetime opportunity, because Voldemort had no doubt much more efficient ways to dispose of his opponents. Besides, Harry had a suspicion that a place held together by magic so strongly wouldn't allow to be a vehicle for something inconsequential as a few wizards' war.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked softly. He felt his gaze settle on him.

"Don't you think that one of the last unbound sources of ancient magic would interest me after I have studied the nature of that very power for years?" The Dark Lord delivered his words in a voice neutral in every aspect but smooth as a reflection of the charm that was so inherent to his character, dark velvet gliding over mahogany.

"You don't seem the type to indulge in memories or enjoy conversations over a good drink."

"No of course not," Voldemort replied with a half smile in his voice. "You would expect me to spend my days deep underground, close enough to hell for warmth or else to be cold blooded enough to stay creeping in my dungeon."

Harry shrugged. "It would probably scare the wizarding world more to find you sitting here than imagine you eating children alive."

The older wizard laughed. "That it would," he agreed. "Tell me, boy, why are _you_ sitting here and talking to me?"

"Magic…" Harry said.

"The magic can give you suggestions or leads, but it is you who decides. No magic makes you talk to me and there certainly was no Imperius Curse."

"I saw my mother. And when I sat down I found myself looking you straight in the eyes."

"Ah yes. I'm sure it was the worst of disappointments."

"It was." Harry glared, slightly irked.

"Not so much into the Christmas spirit yourself, Harry? And you would blame me first, dear Salazar."

He didn't answer and wondered what it was that made him feel comfortable whilst having a semi-normal conversation with his... well, what was Voldemort really, except the icon of darkness and man he was destined to kill or be tortured and killed by?

"You're growing up."

"Excuse me?" Harry said at the Dark Lord's words.

"You're looking further than the black and white pictures your books presented you with. I'm an adult, you might be one someday in the far future, and tonight we have a chat about this and that. There's no more to it than that."

"And tomorrow we try to kill each other again?"

"That's it," was the relaxed reply.

"I feel comforted now, with that knowledge. Thank you for sorting me out. Now that's settled…"

The Dark Lord only shook his head with a small smile. Harry rolled his eyes and concentrated on the fire's warmth.

"So… what's the magic telling you?" he asked a little later. He felt odd, it was strange to address his nemesis in such a nonchalant way. If he had to look at things as Voldemort said, he barely considered the wizard next to him as the kind of man to be addressed in such a casual manner. His words almost felt sloppy.

"'The magic' isn't telling me anything. It's not a person, boy, but a source of power some persons have a talent for and others do not."

"Like singing?"

"I wouldn't exactly put it like that. Everyone can sing, or learn to sing to at least some degree. The magical talent runs in the blood and isn't given away like a piece of candy. It requires a certain strength."

"You're so prejudiced!"

"Now hear who's talking. So are you, just from the opposite side," the older wizard said, his black robes rustling as he moved to sit in another position.

A part of the black velvet came to rest against Harry. He couldn't feel its weight through his warm winter cloak but the unusual sight of the dark soft fabric against his own less conspicuous robes sent a rush of heat to his face. So he was growing up? Right on it, that one, and his mind and body agreed in unison. There was a strange kind of allure coming from the Dark wizard, almost glowing over Harry, drawing him towards Tom to hear him out. It was the smoothness with which he spoke, the distinct accent and mannerism or the things he said, so much stronger even than his pretty sixteen year old self Harry had encountered once. The years had advantaged him, having outlined his body and given it the air of self-assuredness his spirit possessed as far as Harry could see under the heavy robes he wore. Then he remembered the late Dumbledore's words, how Tom had always known how to win people over and what a charm he had. It didn't matter, this was just a talk between two grown-ups. For once, it didn't change anything. Suddenly his contemplative silence was broken and the object of his fascination glided back to the perfect folds of Voldemort's robes as he stood gracefully and composed.

"Where are you going?" Harry asked, keeping the traces of disappointment far from his voice.

"Home, of course. I've had enough for one evening. We'll meet later, Harry, as you and I both know of course."

"Hang on – I was rather enjoying this… talking to you. Can't you stay a little while longer?"

A small smile of amusement broke the other one's serene expression. "Are you sure you're ready for that? I said you were growing up, not that the process was completed already."

"I'm quite sure, thanks." He returned the gaze with steady eyes, no blinking, his heart beating wildly in his ears.

"How about you come with me and we have a glass together then, as a gesture of mutual trust. You keep your observations to yourself, I naturally let you go unscathed. I invite you as a guest."

"Why not," Harry said and he stood up as well, a little dizzy from the music, warmth and people around him but never having felt this alive before. Gods, he was ready for this. He so was.

"Please," Voldemort said and he offered Harry his hand with a small nod. Harry took it breathlessly and the fire disappeared in a whirl of colours. The crazy gallop of his heart was all he heard for a moment, and then he oriented himself again. He stood before a smaller fire in a room where cloaks were unnecessary.

"Welcome, and please, do sit down."

Voldemort offered him a glass of amber liquid before he sat down himself, next to Harry, keeping a polite distance.

"So, tell me boy, I'm quite sure you had never imagined to spend your Yule here," he said with only the hint of an amused smile.

Harry thought this over for a moment. It was true enough, his choice of company in the form of Tom Riddle was at least surprising, but the last few days, or were it months already, had gone by in such a cloud of strange and life-altering events that nothing came as a complete shock anymore. At this very moment it seemed as if he had been living up to a pivotal time that came closer with every passing second now.

"I'm a Legilimens, Harry, but sometimes you're a complete mystery to me," the other murmured, bending closer.

"I don't understand it either. Sometimes I think I just lost it," Harry said drowsily, unconsciously leaning closer to the warm source of comfort next to him.

"You know Harry," and he spoke Harry's name for the first time. It rolled off his tongue as an exotic herb full of alluring promise or deep oriental secrets. "Feeling someone's mind is such an intimate gesture." He was whispering now, letting the boy lean against him. "I compensate it with violence, feeling soiled by people's little dirty secrets. But with you, perhaps I should celebrate it."

He raised his glass in a toast. "On you, Harry."

"On unexpected Christmas tides," Harry mimicked and sipped again.

Tom smiled on Harry's choice of words. "As you say."

They drunk in companionable silence for a while, Harry staring at the flames of the hearth, Tom Riddle thinking as well, but not about truths and lies as he knew about those already, not even of the web of deception he hadn't spun but that had come so easily.

Harry shifted but didn't move away. He didn't want to wonder why the arm that came to rest silently around him felt good to lean against. After all, some things just were, and he rested his free hand on the older wizard's thigh as well.

"What did you think of it?" Harry asked.

"Your mind?"

"Yes. I must be crazy, no?"

"Perhaps you just long for something else," Voldemort replied cautiously.

"Perhaps." Harry agreed, new rhythms creeping into his bloodstream and willing him closer even to Tom.

"You said it's magic, Harry. At Yuletide there's always magic in the air." He looked the smaller boy in the eyes with a small smile and bent his head. Just as he had expected, the boy landed his lips on his. Not awkward or clumsy, not shy or particularly wild, but just a kiss as if they had done this a hundred times before, lips pressing against each other and tongues touching in a slow and sensual soul-devouring kiss.

"Can I stay a little while longer?" Harry asked.

"You can stay many little whiles if you wish, little one," Tom whispered in his ear, holding the boy close and leaning his head on Harry's. He smiled softly.

"Merry Yule, Harry."

Fin


End file.
